


"Had to know before I invited you into the shower," Gabriel told him with a wink.

by hakura0



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, POV Second Person, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-11-22 19:37:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20879582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hakura0/pseuds/hakura0
Summary: You don't have the words to say; this isn't the first time I've wanted you. The water was lukewarm, the wall of the shower cold against your shoulder when you leaned against it. Eyes closed in concentration, in imagination, in effort.It'd been ridiculous. It'd been a while.





	"Had to know before I invited you into the shower," Gabriel told him with a wink.

You don't have the words to say; this isn't the first time I've wanted you. The water was lukewarm, the wall of the shower cold against your shoulder when you leaned against it. Eyes closed in concentration, in imagination, in effort. 

It'd been ridiculous. It'd been a while.

Touching yourself as the water poured down, imagining your fingers twined in hair and mouth and throat around you, still sucking, still pulling you in. It's warmer than anything in the room was.

The guilt came after, gathering handfuls of now-cold water from the stream to wash off the side of the shower. Fending off a man with a chainsaw.

Blame is easy. You shared some drinks with your brother and blurred it out. It wasn't the last time you thought of him, but half-remembered fantasies of the way it feel when someone smiles around your dick get annihilated pretty easily by attempted murder and the unheard sound of wood breaking through bone.

He would laugh if you told him, shrug it off. Innuendo, innuendo, innuendo. The fact is, you don't know what to do with him.

Once upon a time you closed your eyes, folded your hands and said, "I'm sorry," in the passenger side of the Impala while Dean was getting gas station coffee, the Elysian less than a day behind you, "I'm sorry," you repeated, when more words wouldn't come. Then, silence. Then, "Thank you." More silence. The air outside smelled like gasoline. The air inside had some bizarre hint of spice. The air in your lungs doesn't smell like anything, but it feels oddly heavy.

You're never going to know how much of it was revenge. It hurts the part of you that aches to be something more than an abomination. 

You attribute good intentions because you have to. It gets you syphilis. Or was it herpes? That's blurred too.

They call him Gabriel and some part of you that's still a little boy that wants to believe in good and redemption, wants-

Wants-

Wants.

But you don't ask and then he's dead. You won't ask now, even though the last part isn't true anymore. You think of Florida and want to ask, "Were you really trying to help?" You think of the video and want to ask, "Are you fucking serious?"

It's a better question than, "Did you know?"

You sit across from him at breakfast, his eyes still familiar in a face that isn't quite, and you want to ask, "Are you staying because you have no other choice?"

What your mouth does is finish eating your toast. Eventually it asks about his plans for the day; baby steps.

You pour yourself into knowing, which doesn't feel fair for all the things you don't, for all the things he doesn't. You ask him if he still has a sweet tooth or if that was part of the act and he hesitates. It's something you've seen before, on the bare walls of your room. The general bareness of your room. 

Your bedroom isn't an expression, it's a place for storing things. A bed, a pile of books for when you know sitting in the library will get your brother telling you to go to sleep. He still tells you, but he has to look for you harder first. Sometimes you feel like you're a place for storing things too; it’s why you suck down all the information you can. There are memories too, of course. Your soul. Can someone find out they were walking around without that and not question which part they really are? No. Yes. Most of the time.

The books help with that, too.

You're in the bedroom when you clasp your hands again. You know more, and you think he does too. You think of him smiling. You think of him looking.

You think about the shower, again. You think of him pulling you down by the front of your shirt for a kiss, steadfastly flat-footed. You think about picking him up, his legs wrapping around your waist and pushing him against a wall.

Your hands are clenched, eyes closed, head bowed and knuckles touching your forehead. You shift.

The next morning Castiel almost says something, but ultimately just ignores your eyes.

Revenge never helps, except when it does because it's not an option anymore. Maybe never is relative. Maybe this time will be different - it isn't, but it's easy enough to pretend. You wanted it to, this time. Ghost-pale scars still show around his lips in the right lighting, when you stare. 

You stare a lot. After all, the eyes are the window to the soul and part of you is afraid that you're both bare. 

There's an infinite number of infinitely small moments between then and now. Between five minutes ago. It's an eternity, for something. 

You're in a house full of people who've lived, and died, and died, and died, and sometimes forget to keep doing the living part in between. Who sometimes forget to do the dying part. You exist, you aren't something nebulous.

Apparently, things could have been different. Things could always be different. You could be a lawyer and he could be a lie. He could be playing the effect to life's humanity's cause. Addressing injustice with something. A few years ago you would have said 'injustice' without hesitation. Or with very little.

There are smaller ways things could be different. You could've moved, back and forward, done something other than stand in the shower. But you know that story's name; it’s Madison.

Somewhere you are making excuses. It's your bedroom again. He's refusing them, unlike when you finally kissed him in the room with the remnants of blurred words on the wall, sealed into the Bunker.

Truth or dare? Why not both?

He didn't taste like anything, really, because people don't. His hair smelled like citrus. One of you sighed, or maybe both. There was warmth, some distracted moment that deepened up until your hand went to the side of his neck. There's heavy breathing in the room until there isn't but no one moves, no one says a word. You snap your fingers. It doesn't do anything. That's a lie. His eyes meet yours. There's a question mark written on poster board held up to his window, and yours says "Let's try again."

You kiss him for the first time for the second time, and this time you keep your hands to yourself. The second time you kiss him you thread your fingers through his hair, and that's fine. The second time you kiss him for the fifth time, standing in the kitchen while water heats you don't bite his lip. But you're not there yet, remember?

You're in your room explaining that you're a death sentence, but to be fair it's two days after Halloween. He's calling them excuses and batting them away. You're still wary, after, but mostly you feel stupid. It's amazing.

The first time you have sex your thumb and middle finger are sore, and there's a twinge down your wrist. He tastes like coffee, though you've long lost count of what kiss it is. You thread your fingers through his hair and kiss your way down his throat, sucking gently on everything as you trace your way down; His neck, his nipples, the head of his dick.

He's laid flat on the bed, struggling to keep his eyes from fluttering closed, hands clinging to the fabric of the sheets. "You can touch me," you offer, and he tells you he knows.

He's bigger than you expected, and hard enough it's easy to tell why he's having such a hard time concentrating. You put your mouth on him again, lips covering your teeth. Salt and sweat is all there is to taste, but the sounds are more important. The little noises that he's making, not quite words but not silence. You're about to pull back when you feel his hand in your hair, touch still light, careful, testing. 

You take him in his entirety and gag for your efforts. It's momentary, you're over it the second you've got air again and you can still feel him against your tongue.

You turn your mouth's attention back to his nipples and wrap your hands around him instead, getting what slickness you can before you ease a finger into him. 

An infinite number of infinitely small moments pass, and in them you return your mouth to his. You work him slow and careful and thorough and when he comes you do it again, your dick almost painfully hard. It takes a lot not to grind against his leg. Not to take him now. An eternity ends and you work in the second finger.

Whatever he says isn't English, might not be a language except that you hear your name. You kiss him each time you do, revel in the hand on your shoulder, the gasped breaths. You ease off the next time he seems close, pulling bodily up from him as you remove your fingers. He complains, and you laugh, guiding his free hand to your hard shaft. Fair's fair.

All it takes is for him to move his hand and you almost lose it, but instead you get to work with three fingers.

Thought, is somewhere else as you fight to keep either of you from coming. You want to tell him that he's driving you insane, but he's the one speaking in tongues. You're the one gently brushing the secret places inside of him and avoiding pressure as you stretch him out.

"Wait," is all he says after you've pulled your fingers out, and he pauses, swallows, infinity passes again before he props himself on an elbow and guides your dick, still in hand, to his mouth.

"Gabriel," comes out more moan than question, but there is something mischievous in his eyes with the wariness, with the need. The need is predominant there when you meet his eyes, scratched into the windows and it takes everything you have not to explode the instant you feel his mouth around you, he takes as much of you as he can keep in his mouth along, gives one good long suck and then pulls his head back.

Your head is swimming, vision almost failing, the wetness of his mouth on your dick making a shudder run through you from the cold air in the room. He falls back down onto his pillow, expression almost proud, a thin bravado in his smile that reaches his voice, "Okay. You can fuck me now."

The words send something through you, and your hand goes to the base of your cock almost on instinct, fingers wrapping tightly to try to delay the inevitable as you guide yourself to his hole. He grasps your thigh as you angle yourself, and you enter him in one slow, solid move, his nails digging into your thigh, holding you there as the other's grip remains tight on the pillow.

He gives next to no resistance, but his heat alone makes you gasp, the feeling of him tight around you prompting a moan. You move, still hanging on by the skin of your teeth, muttering close to his ear exactly how good he feels, nonsense words and descriptors until he starts to arch into you too, and you speed up to meet his rhythm, his hand moving from your thigh to your ass.

When you lean forward to kiss him his dick is pressed flat against your groin and he cries out into your mouth and suddenly none of your self-control is enough, and you come mid-stroke, hard enough to see stars, your forehead pressed to his.

The two of you breathe and the stars behind your eyes dance and explode into supernovas and black holes, galaxies beginning and ending and Gabriel's eyes flutter shut for the space of another breath pushed out through lips curled into a smile and no such loss of words; "_Wow_."


End file.
